


8 Days: ‘May The Best Man Win’

by VanStock1992



Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A different take on Victor Trevor, He’s only a bit not good, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, No cheating, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, Teacher-Student Relationship, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-23 21:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanStock1992/pseuds/VanStock1992
Summary: Victor Trevor is dragged back into the Holmes family drama that he never quite allowed himself to escape. But that’s just what happens when your ex is your closest friend, right?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204169
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	1. We Parted As Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Please try not to hate me for my alternative take on Victor Trevor. Not the bad guy, not a particularly great guy but important and caring all the same. This one makes the most sense to be divided up into chapters and I expect there to be about three of them of varying lengths.

Victor’s favorite days at the library were Thursdays. At 11 o’clock on Thursday he got to host Pirate Puppet Story Hour and even the irritating teenagers that showed up to use the computers for pornography couldn’t ruin his good mood as he left work and headed towards his dealer’s favorite haunt. Billy Wiggins was annoying, almost as much so as the teenagers but at least he wasn’t going to rob him, knife him or sell him a shitty product. He was almost back to the terrible flat he still had on Montague Street when a black car pulled up beside him and Victor couldn’t help but want to scream in frustration.

“Fuck off, Myc.” He said, pulling out a pack of smokes and lighting one just as the window rolled down and the car began slowing to a stop.

The slightly amused look on Mycroft’s face was quickly removed with a puff of smoke blown in his direction, and Victor was pleased to deduce that Mycroft himself had quit. If he relapsed it would serve him right. If his habit of accosting men on their way home from an honest job was going to inconvenience Victor then he sure as fuck could endure some inconvenience of his own.

“Charming,” His pinched face companion said. “Professor Trevor, if you would be so kind as to make this easy and get in the car under your own will.”

The still walking man scoffed. “ _Professor Trevor?_ Blow it out your arse.” Flattery wasn’t going to work with him and Victor had no idea why Mycroft thought it would. After knowing each other for nearly two decades, one would think they’d be past lying to each other. “Unless you’re going to charge me with something, I’m going to go home and enjoy doing anything but talk to you.”

The car sped up in front of him and the door opened, but security did not step out. The British Government himself joined him on the sidewalk with his arms crossed, the poorly disguised weapon he usually never let out of his sight still sitting just inside the door jam. 

Mycroft raised a brow, “Do I have your attention now?”

He flicked the ash off his cigarette and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Look, I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

“He brings Rosamund to your story hour at least once a month.” The slightly taller man said, “and you were texting just last week. I believe he inquired regarding if you had a certain news clipping pertaining to The Trinity case.”

Victor shrugged. “That’s what Watson decided to call it, eh? Thought he didn’t name them until after. Learn something new every day.”

“Must we play these games for the world to see, or will you be joining me in the car?”

He chuckled humorlessly then sniffed. “I always enjoyed an audience for our little talks, didn’t you? How are Violet and Siger doing these days, anyhow? Be sure to tell Mummy that I absolutely love my holiday scarf. Make sure she keeps me on the Christmas card list, my address hasn’t changed. Same old shithole.”

“Victor-“

“Christ, Mycroft! I might have been afraid of you eighteen years ago but I _grew. the. fuck. up_.” Victor spat, tossing his cigarette into the bucket outside the pub they’d ended up standing next to. “I’d suggest you try it. Seems to me we’re both getting a bit old for your theatrics, and I’m a fifty year old man that plays with puppets. If you’ll excuse me-“

Mycroft grabbed his forearm as he brushed past, and he wasn’t sure if he could recall a single time when they weren’t shoved together for a family photograph that Mycroft had ever done more than shake his hand. “Sherlock needs you.”

“I’m guessing you’re not trying to kidnap me because you’ve been promoted to his secretary.”

The younger man winced. “He’s in hospital.”

“He has a husband.” Victor answered, his heart thumping in his ears all the same. “John is the one that belongs at his bedside. As you ensured, Sherlock Holmes isn’t my fucking problem anymore.”

“Doctor Watson is there, don’t you worry. Much to his dismay, Sherlock is asking for you,” Mycroft said, ignoring his blatant lie. “likely due to the fact that on the majority of occasions that he’s woken up confused in intensive care, you’ve been at least in part to blame. I might not have supported your marriage-“

“You gave us divorce papers every birthday, anniversary or Christmas for five years.”

Mycroft smiled softly, “They came in handy eventually, did they not? Besides, you and I both know a marriage between a student and his English professor was never meant to be more than a bit of fun. There is a season for all things including the two of you playing house.” He said the last two words with disgust.

“Guess we’ll never know,” Victor said but didn’t move to leave again. “Alright, fine. Take me to him and make it quick.”

He slid into the back seat and Mycroft followed, chuckling to himself without malice. It was always a dance between them and no matter how much he couldn’t stand his former brother in law most days, there were good times as well. The kidnapping was less than the ideal circumstances to reminisce but they’d done so on a few occasions over the years. It had been almost ten years since Victor and Sherlock’s fairly amicable divorce. 

Unlike most, they had managed to part as friends. He was quite proud of himself for making the determination that either Sherlock took the lifeboat of ending their marriage and going to rehab or he would go down with Victor’s own sinking ship. In the end, all it took for Sherlock to agree that their love wasn’t ever going to be enough was Victor having him sectioned with Mycroft’s assistance. Turned out, even Sherlock Holmes’s loyalty came had its limitations and coaxing a signature out of him while he brooded over having to go to group therapy was easy enough for his older brother to do.

Still, there he was being dragged back into the fold again and again and a-fucking-gain. When one married a Holmes, there were some ties that could not be cut.

Victor sincerely hoped that John would accept his apology.

“The drugs, if you please.” Mycroft held out a hand that he steadfastly ignored. “I know you’re carrying.”

He looked at him with boredom. “Still having me monitored all these years? You really do care.” Victor feigned wiping a tear and rolled his eyes.

“You’re always carrying.”

“It’s just hashish!” He said, but gave in to handing him the ticket he had to a relaxing evening and long weekend.

Mycroft smiled and tucked it into his own jacket. “Just until you’re not helping my brother, then you can have it back.”

Victor sighed and let his head nearly crack against the window as he slumped into the door in indignation. Pulling out s cigarette and taking a long drag, he blew another quick stream of smoke onto Mycroft’s face. “I sure as fuck hope so. Why would you bother to come get me, anyways? It’s not just because Sherlock asked.”

“Very good,” He mockingly praised, “as much as I would like to relieve my brother’s anxiety, my primary concern has always been his health and well-being. I know all there is to know about Sherlock’s medical history, however I lack the knowledge of what happened to” Mycroft checked a note that was pulled from his pocket, “ _‘Jordan Pierce’_ the summer he turned nineteen. Care to enlighten me on the subject?”

Fuck.


	2. Paved With Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I take that back. Another tiny chapter before the two longer ones to finish up this section.

**18 Years Ago...**

  
“Holmes, I want to see you in my office. Now.” Professor Trevor called out to him at the end of class, and Sherlock tried to ignore the tremors starting at his fingertips that would turn to full shivers the further he got from the hope of relief in his dormitory.

He could get through this quickly, dismiss any questions Professor Trevor might have about his paper and be on his way in five- no, seven minutes, tops.

“Yes, Professor?” Good, he told himself because they liked that. Hearing their titles made their own boring and pointless existences more fulfilling despite the fact that none of his professors were actually doing what they’d set out to accomplish when they were students themselves. “You wanted to see me?”

Trevor raised both brows at him while he sat down and leaned back too far to maintain the integrity of his office chair. “Yep, that’s what I said.”

“Regarding...”

The Professor before him- 

_(early thirties, married once but divorced over two years ago and separated for three, didn’t shower this morning but did rinse the gel from his hair over the sink, a smidge of black eyeliner remaining from a weekend out dancing, bisexual at least but very possibly gay)_

-looked at him for a long moment, his eyes making their way up and down his body several times before settling back to a spot behind his head.

_(Social anxiety, a former stutterer or perhaps I just make him nervous like I did my violin tutor which mummy said was because of my-)_

“Holmes, you still with me?” Professor Trevor asked, snapping his fingers in Sherlock’s field of vision.

He swallowed hard despite his mouth being drier than the Sahara. “Yes, Professor.”

The strawberry blonde haired-

_(Not from a bottle)_

-man smiled at him with straight white teeth-

_(Over ten-thousand pounds in orthodontics starting at age eleven)_

-and kind hazel eyes. “You’re high.” 

“Excuse me, Professor?”

He chuckled sadly and shook his head. “You’re in my class, and you’re high. Well, you’re needing to get high in any case. How long’ve you been using?”

“Forgive me, Professor Trevor, but you’re mistaken.”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ and put his hands behind his head. “Call me Victor, by the way. See, I looked into you. It was killing me not knowing what Mycroft Holmes’s little brother was doing in my classroom.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in genuine surprise, “You taught my brother?”

Victor smirked. “Unfortunately, yes. Only as a teaching assistant, I’m afraid. But because of that- and the buzz around the hive- I know he’s set to be the most powerful man in Britain within the next five years. That’s hardly my point,”

“Could you get to whatever your point is then, _Victor?_ ” Sherlock tried to glare a hole straight through his left eye in hopes it would do enough damage to leave the man either without a pulse or in a vegetative state. 

It did not.

“My point is that you are set to be the next trailblazer of forensic science if that _partial print extrapolation_ software of yours actually pans out. The one that compiles millions of fingerprints to notice patterns and uses them to develop incomplete prints.” He specified, as if Sherlock was some type of idiot that didn’t know what his own computer program did or how it would revolutionize the field. “Yet here you are in my Children’s Literature class. Why is that?”

_(Open posture, genuine curiosity, wants the real answer, knows you’re high and hasn’t lost his temper, safe to answer)_

Sherlock rocked on and off his toes absentmindedly and stopped when Victor smirked at him. “I wanted- I needed to know what kind of scam you were running here.”

“Scam?” He asked, his tone not changing.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Sherlock answered cheekily and then blushed, unsure why he did either. More data was needed. “You’re teaching an entire class on books we all read as children and have even published your own textbook of these works despite the fact that they are both in the public domain and your commentary lacks substance or even feigned interest on the subject. I wanted to know why.”

Of all the responses he expected, Victor busting out into almost uncontrollable laughter for the better part of thirty seconds was not one of them. “Shit, you’re good. If you must know, I hate writing cliff notes.” He shrugged, carelessly wrinkling his shirt. “What I care about is what you think of the works, and by that I mean thoughts other than they’re _‘complete bollocks’_ and _‘a waste of your incredibly valuable time’_. Thanks for those love letters in my comment box, by the way.”

To that Sherlock found himself with no real response.

“As for why I published the book, I wanted to teach this class and getting the administration to take me seriously required laying a bit of groundwork.” 

_Interesting._ “And you require the royalties from the book’s sale to sustain your own habit.”

Again, there was no answer. Instead, Victor leaned forward in his chair and pulled out a long strip of paper with plastic pockets which he reached out and insisted be placed directly in Sherlock’s hand.

“Sterile needles?”

His Professor inclined his head. “You’ll need them, because we are-“ Professor Trevor glanced down at the desktop calendar, “-two months into the semester and you’re bound to be nearly out at the rate you’re using even if you packed a suitcase full. You’re also not in Kansas anymore, Holmes, and I’d hate for you to get yourself hurt or _killed_. Which is why I’m begging you not to buy just anything you find around campus. You’re a chem kid, and I know Professor Michaels would turn a blind eye even if he suspected, so test your shit. Clearly you use morphine which is easy enough to obtain from a medical supplier with the right connections, but the cocaine you’re obviously dabbling in by the looks of your last essay is a bit more temperamental.” He finally frowned, more thoughtful than anything. “I’m not the only professor that’s going to notice that eventually, by the way, so watch yourself.

“And by _watch yourself_ , I mean never shoot up alone and _always_ check the calculations on your dosages at least twice after you make them.” Victor chewed on his bottom lip. “Look, I have a futon you can safely crash on, a steady supply of clean needles and connections to safe product that isn’t going to be laced with something horrifying. This is a key to my flat and the address is on the tag. Only you have this, so I’ll know if any of my actual possessions are missing. Come by after five.”

Sherlock eyed the key suspiciously. “What’s in it for you, _Professor_?”

The most gentle gaze, as if Victor was afraid of breaking him like he was Mummy’s fine crystal, took him in and smiled. “Knowing you’re alright. I just want to help you.”

_I just want to help you. I just want to help you. I just want to help you. I just want to help you. I just want to help you. I just want to help you... you... you...  
  
_

“Okay.”

  
And in Victor’s defense, he did try.


	3. How Much I Love You

Victor absolutely hated the Dever airport. He hated it even more than parents that didn’t watch their children at Pirate Puppet Story Hour and the aftertaste of stevia sweetened fizzy drinks. It was a circus tent of suck with a mock tube station because building a skywalk or hiring a halfway decent architect was far too complicated.

The last time he’d been profoundly irritated in the Denver airport had been eighteen years ago and Victor recalled it had been far more tolerable being irritated with the love of his life by his side. He’d held the hand of a boy with lovely eyes blown wide open with what they’d shot up in the bathroom at O'hare when leaving Chicago. His lips had been smeared with the sticky lip gloss the boy wore because of course his marvelous manic genius wore lipgloss and eyeliner and more hair mousse than was proper. 

Victor’s only comfort as he rode the tram alone was that the reason he was there was for Sherlock which made the memories of long nights in poorly lit clubs and making love with all the lights on both more agonizing and easier to bear. Most likely that was because Victor found himself to be an emotional masochist when it came to Sherlock Holmes. The christening of each new hotel room at blazing sunrise was his favorite part because who would ever make love to Sherlock and not want to look at him for hours?

He checked into the same hotel, into the same suite, because maybe _Mitchell Waters_ was banned due to an unfortunate incident involving speedballing and a whirlpool tub, but Victor Trevor was very much still allowed inside. _Mitchell Waters_ had blondish red hair, a leather jacket and weighed 140lbs soaking wet after a Sunday roast. Victor Trevor had gone quite gray, grown a beard and was a bit softer around the middle. Wearing reading glasses, both for good measure and filling out the paperwork, he let out a long exhale as he reached his lonely hotel room. With any luck, he would only be in Denver for one night and back on a plane before sundown the following day. Whether than plane was to San Francisco or London was entirely determined by what the fuck happened to _Jordan Pierce_ in this miserable fucking city eighteen years ago.

The hotel’s location was both essential and convenient because Victor vaguely remembered calling an ambulance from a hotel suite such as the one he stood in and knowing which hospital it was likely Sherlock was taken to was essential. The fewer places he had to check for records of _Jordan Pierce,_ the faster he could get them into the hands of Doctor John Hamish Watson-Holmes,

God, Victor hoped he could eventually get used to that.

Every time he thought of the short statured man that somehow took up the whole room, Victor couldn’t help but want to bow his head in recognition. Should their time as paramore’s in Sherlock’s life have overlapped, Victor might have been inclined to dislike the man, the problem being that Victor knew his fatal flaw was having a hard time disliking anyone.

Mycroft Holmes had accomplished quite the feat.

Before Sherlock’s faked suicide, which Victor greatly resented being made an accomplice to, Sherlock had described John to him as a sunny day that he simply couldn’t miss out on by squinting. Victor knew that Sherlock was deeply in love, because that was exactly how he saw the mad genius- the one that had stopped being _his_ mad genius too long ago to mourn for but too recently for it not to hurt.

After John’s first wedding, Victor regretted not insisting on moving back to Baker’s Street with Sherlock. He could have taken the third floor bedroom and stayed until Sherlock seemed himself again, even if that meant he could never actually leave. Even if it meant watching the man he loved mourn someone else until the end of time. At least Victor had done so from the confines of a 6-month rehabilitation program while Sherlock had gone to one of his own hundreds of miles away.

The unfair truth was that that sss the first program that made a bloody difference. A difference that Victor knew he had made necessary.

_“Victor! Have you seen my wallet?” Sherlock called from the bedroom while he toweled off from the shower._

_He shivered, smirking at the idea that a man with a photographic memory could struggle so much with keeping track of his own possessions. “I put it in your boots.”_

_“Ta!”_

_A smile spread across Victor’s face as he stepped into a pair of pants and jeans Sherlock left out for him on the counter. The boy had gone shopping and apparently_ **_‘You can't dress yourself’_ ** _translated roughly to_ **_‘your bollocks and prick aren’t being properly deprived of blood flow’_ **

_“What about my phone?”_

_Victor laughed, “Try the other boot.”_

_When his boyfriend-_ **_his_ ** _Sherlock- turned the corner looking mildly irritated and still a bit post shag disheveled, he marveled over how it was even humanly possible that someone like him had ever even given Victor a second glance._

_“What are you smiling at?” Sherlock demanded as he wetted the last clean flannel which he used to wipe away more of his smeared eyeliner._

_The sight of Sherlock looking up at him, eyes watering, while gagging on his cock would be forever remembered as one of the more glorious things Victor ever had the pleasure of experiencing._

_He shook his head, “Nothing, just you being you.”_

_“Stop that- and go pay the kind gentleman that will be knocking on the door in approximately three minutes with my fags.”_

_Victor frowned. “How many times do I have to tell you that isn’t what absolutely_ **_anyone_ ** _calls them here?”_

_He shrugged. “Until it stops being entertaining.”_

_“Oh my dear little sociopath.” Victor placed a kiss on the side of Sherlock’s head and felt the shift and pull of the flesh under his lips as Sherlock grinned._

_“When will you stop calling me that?”_

_This time, he was Victor who shrugged mockingly. “Until you learn to grasp how much I love you.”_

_“Gross, sentiment.” Sherlock scoffed, still beaming at him in the mirror like they were in some sort of absurd alternate reality where_ **_Sherlock_ ** _was the lucky one. “If that’s true than at least I’m a high functioning sociopath.”_

_Victor snorted. “Well that’s debatable,” He said with a wink and turned towards the knock he hurt at the-_

The memory was ended by the silky baritone he remembered recording a voice message on his phone for a very specific reason during Sherlock’s last birthday night out. It had been kindly attended by the good doctor and, unfortunately, supervised by the great addict sitter himself.

**_“Big brother is watching… Big brother is watching… Big brother is-”_ **

“Fuck off, Myc.” Victor answered, primarily out of habit. “I’m working as fast as I can. Four cities- twelve hospitals- in two days was hard enough without your nagging.”

“Uhh, Vic, it’s me.” John Watson-Holmes, the opponent he was deeply honored to have lost to, said with a winge of apprehension. “Things really are that bad between you two? Sherlock wasn’t just speaking in hyperbole?” He asked with a small laugh that Victor knew his heart wasn’t in.  
He shook his head to the empty hotel room. “No, not this time. Can’t blame Myc, in retrospect. A drug fueled holiday across the states wasn’t exactly the best of ideas, but here we are.”

“Please know that I don’t blame you,” The doctor said, sounding far too exhausted to be so fucking polite. Had the man slept at all in the last week? “I only called because Sherlock’s sedation is being lifted for an evaluation and I think… it’s really hard to make out but I’m almost certain he wants to talk to you again.”  
“What? No, I-” Victor stammered.  
“Here he is.” John told him, either ignoring or not registering his refusal.  
No, Victor couldn’t stand it. How could John be so nice about the fact that Sherlock had woken up- yet again- wanting his ex instead of his husband? If it was a result of the bedside manner taught to him in medical school, Victor decided it was a more soul crushing profession than he’d previously thought. It was Victor’s fault that it was an ICU bed that John’s husband was confined to instead of cuddling with him and their daughter on the sofa at 221B.  
“Vic, listen,” A croaking voice said, and it took longer than was prope for him to register it as Sherlock struggling with a tongue that wasn’t waking up as fast as his mind was. “Are you listening? I’ve sent John to go check on Rosie.”

He huffed impatiently. “Why?”

There was a strained breath and a cough, likely from the cool dry hospital air. “We all deserve our secrets.”

“What secrets?”

If he hadn’t been positive he was mistaken, Victor would have swore he heard a chuckle. “Monroe,” Sherlock answered, voice lowered. “Where you got chlamydia.” 

It wasn’t his fault that an involuntary string of expletives flew from his mouth as blurry strung out memories were forced into some semblance of focus.

“You dick! You utter cock!” Victor swore. “Are you fucking kidding me?! This is bullshet, Sherlock Holmes, you ever loving fucking twat! How the fuck did you remember that after I’ve spent years having no idea how thath appended?” He yelled into the phone in one breath, suddenly struck silent with a weighted reminder of why exactly Sherlock’s last name had been adorned with _Watson_ instead of changed back to _Trevor_. The good times in Victor and Sherlock’s marriage had been euphoric, and calling the opposite bad times had been the understatement of the century. “Sorry, God, I’m such a prick.”

Sherlock snorted, ade bolder with age in the most gorgeous of ways. “Yes, that is the appendage you utilized to contract it before so thoughtfully gifting it to me.”

He could hear the famous eye roll. “Fair shot, I guess. How did you remember?”

“The morphine. Not sure I’ve been on this much of it for so long since then.”

Monroe, Louisiana. That was where it all went wrong. Victor slept with someone who knew where to buy the best drugs and they got so high that Sherlock fell from a poorly assembled rope bondage suspension rig, and ended up in the A&E after losing consciousness. A concussion and a broken neck. When Victor closed his eyes he could see the bloody screws that held Sherlock’s neck brace in place thrown in the bathroom sink but shamefully couldn’t remember anything other than finding it hilarious at the time. By the time they sobered up before the start of the next term, they were all just memories quickly fading in the fog. 

“Guess I’m getting back on a plane.” He groaned, dragging himself from where he’d sat on the edge of the bed. “And in defense of me and my prick, we were both on antibiotics the second I was symptomatic.”

His ex-husband- no, his old friend laughed. “Still not going to thank you for that.”

Rolling his suitcase back out the door of the suite, grateful he hadn’t even bothered to unpack, Victor smiled. “Well fuck you too, my dearest sociopath. Shit, not _my-_ I mean not anymore obviously-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock sounded painted through what Victor knew as a cocktail of opiates and other attempts at keeping him more comfortable as well as preventing more seizures. “All John wants is the detective. You can keep the sociopathic junkie.”

Victor smirked, knowing there was far more that John Watson loved about Sherlock Holmes. So many more parts he wanted. The genius, the father, the doting surrogate son to their aging landlady. Still, he lightened his tone and took the elevator down to the lobby to check out yet again. “Sounds good to me. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’m counting on it.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't care how much people will insist I should write for myself, comments keep me motivated to post <3 keep 'em coming as well as suggestions for future installments. It's all leading up to the main story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts on how this might go? Questions, comments, flip outs? Please leave them for me and I will respond to them all <3 have a good week!


End file.
